Rache and the God-slayer
by Starluff
Summary: Watson is injured in a mission gone wrong. Surely Holmes knows that the best course of action would be to leave him and find someone else? A "A STUDY IN EMERALD" fic, with consideration for the fandom-blind.


**Title:** **Author(s): **Starluff/Stellinia

**Rating: **PG-13

**Universe: **A Study in Emerald

**Character(s)/Pairings: **Holmes and Watson

**Summary: **Watson is injured in a mission gone wrong. Surely Holmes knows that the best course of action would be to leave him and find someone else?

**Warnings: **A severed limb, some minor descriptions on how to murder an Old God. Nothing explicit.

**Word Count: **1681

**Author's Notes: **Are you a fan of Sherlock Holmes who hasn't read A STUDY IN EMERALD yet? Shame on you. Go read it. Now. Seriously, it's available to read online for free as a .pdf. Go read it NOW.**  
**

I'm planning on writing a prequel to aSiE, telling how Holmes and Watson first meet, so I have some head-canon facts here which you won't find in the original. Just so you know, if you see some things that are unfamiliar.

And now, if you haven't taken my advice and read aSiE (your loss, man!), let me bring you up to speed, because this won't be understandable without knowing the bare facts. aSiE is a crossover between Sherlock Holmes and the Cthulhu Mythos universe of horror writer H. P. Lovecraft. Seven hundred years ago, the Old Ones (gods or some such) came to our world and basically took over. They now represent all the royal families, so Queen Victoria is a powerful god. The people who are against the gods (the rebels) are called Restorationists, who, as you might have guessed, wish to restore the world to the way it used to be, for humans to be ruled only by other humans. In aSiE, _Moriarty_ is the consulting detective who works for the Queen, and the author is Moran. Holmes and Watson are the murderers in the story, but they manage to escape Moriarty in the end. Holmes, whose name is not known by Moriarty, calls himself Rache.

And that's all you need to know, I should think. Don't forgot to leave a review and tell me what you think!

Edit: just some minor changes.

* * *

I moaned as Morpheus thrust me into the world of the awake and conscious, and rather wished he would take me back to oblivion. My head was pounding, my left wrist was throbbing, and my body generally ached and hurt. I raised my left hand in front of my face to inspect it and see what was wrong...and found empty space where my hand should have been, and only bandages were connected to my wrist.

Of course, of course! How could I have forgotten?

It was dark in the safe house that Holmes and I now rested, and shapes were visible in the different shades of grey – no colour to be seen. At that point, though, I was well used to blacks and greys. When once I might have been depressed by the atmosphere, they now comforted me like a warm blanket; here we could go unseen; here we could be safe. The darkness is a friend to us villains.

I glanced around the room and found my colleague and (as I thought of him in my head, though I am not sure whether the thought is mutual) friend. He was simply a shape of darker grey against the rest – probably standing in front of a small window or whatever was the source of light in this room – but I could well recognize his shape after all these years.

"Good morning," he said without moving a muscle. If I had not recognized his shape, I would have thought that the voice disembodied.

'Good morning.' Oh, dear. This did not bode well at all. Holmes did not say mundanities, like 'good morning' or 'good evening'. He acknowledged your existence and no more. Adding to that that it was neither morning nor particularly good, I believe I had reason enough to be scared witless.

I was not, however, and I simply replied in a similar vein.

There was a long pause. Now that was more normal; Holmes would undoubtedly be preoccupied with assessing the damage done in the previous failed mission (the one that had cost me my hand) and deciding our next course of action. At such times, I could only imagine what went through his head and how many calculations he thought of. It was not my job in this partnership, after all, and I usually did not bother my head about it overmuch; I had simply focused on my job. A job I was afraid I may not be able to do anymore.

"How is your – arm?" He asked haltingly. Was that tension I spied in his posture? But perhaps it was possible that even Holmes would be a bit awkward when, after so many years in a partnership, he would have to let me go. It would also probably be fairly difficult to find a suitable replacement for me – how many people had studied as extensively as I had the mental and physical anatomies of the blood royal? Perhaps I could teach my successor about all that I had learned: about how the royals' brains were capable of telepathy and high degrees of mental capabilities; how you had to stick a needle in a certain part of the neck to block the telepathic power, or at least lessen it's influence on your own mind; how the royals had three hearts, and you had to cut off the major arteries of each organ if you had any hope of killing them off completely. It was a difficult procedure, the murder of royals, and required two strong, steady hands.

"My arm is alright, I suppose. It will heal." I tried to sit up, but the room swirled around me and I felt as if I was about to fall off the bench I was sitting on, so I quickly resettled myself. "The wound doesn't feel infected, thank heaven. If I just keep the wound cleansed, I'll be fine with time." Then I had a surprising thought, "Did you change the dressing on the wound?"

Holmes waved a hand in his characteristic, dismissive fashion, "Of course I did. You yourself taught me first aid and other useful tips, and you've been out for a few days." After the span of a heartbeat, he added, "Is it satisfactory?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, very good. I don't think I could have done a better job." I flexed my right hand, the only one I had left. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel as if I still had both my hands. The pain in my wrist did not stop.

As I laid there, I fancied I could make out the ceiling and tried to decide what it was made of. Was it wooden? More probably stone. Most of Holmes' safe houses were underground. Were we still in London? I could not say how many times or for how long, but I had woken up a few times since now and the mission, and I did not remember moving.

Finally, I grit my teeth. I had to ask him. I dreaded to know, for a fact, that I would no longer be of use to Holmes, but I was in just as much torment _not_ knowing. I may as well put myself out of my misery and deal with the consequences. I had to know. "Holmes?" He still didn't move or make a sound, but I knew he was listening. "Who are you going to get to replace me?"

At first, nothing. Then, "And what makes you think I am going to have you replaced?"

Now, that was uncalled for! Holmes, the brain without a heart, the man who worshiped logic as if it were his own personal deity, who never minced the truth, telling me he was not going to replace something that was no longer of any use? It was an insult, more so coming from him.

"I do not have two hands anymore, Holmes."

"And? I assume you have a point in all this...?"

"Confound it, Holmes, do you want me to spell it out for you?! I can not murder" - for murder it was, no matter how good your intentions and reasons are - "a royal with only one hand!"

Before I could continue, he cut me off, "Then we'll stick a knife to your wrist in lieu of a hand, it does not matter."

A part of me was aware. A part of me noticed the steely edge to his voice and the underlying anger and frustration. If that part was larger, it might have continued off of that notice and gone on to deduce the reason for that anger in a voice that was usually so cool and calm. Unfortunately, this part of me was eclipsed by my rising temper, and the edge to his voice only served to increase it. "Of course it matters! If I am not able to cut off the royals' telepathic artery, you and I will both be writhing on the floor, our minds irrevocably damaged. If I cannot do the surgery, then of what use am I?"

Holmes turned so suddenly, I almost sat up. I just caught myself before I could pass out. I could hear ragged breath and, if I was not much mistaken, I believe he was trying to control himself. "Of what use?" He snarled with surprising heat. "Of what use? A crack shot, a fine doctor, my partner, and you think you are of no use?"

"I cannot do the most important job-"

"The devil take your 'most important job'!" He spat, and now I was completely taken aback. Regardless, he hurtled on, "You think I am invincible? You think I could have to gotten so far on my own? Fool! I would never have made it on my own. Time and time again, I have made the most elementary mistake, and who was there to pull us out of the hole I dug myself? And you want me to replace you! Who _could_? Who has your knowledge and medical skill, your perfect aim? Who could possibly work with me for so many years?"

"Regardless, Holmes-"

"_You are not leaving me and that is final!"_ He bellowed, in the biggest release of emotion I had ever seen from the man. He turned around, no doubt trying to get a grip on his raging emotions. I, for one, was speechless. Holmes – _Holmes_ – had just argued with me about something that should have been obvious. He had lost his temper. I had often seen in his eyes the powerful emotions that raged within, suppressed though they were. But I had never, not once, seen him lose his grip.

Until now.

"You will stay, Watson, as you always have," he said, in his normal, steady, and in-control voice. "You will stay, and we will continue this war against the Outer Gods, and one day they will be banished from our world. If you so require, then I will be your left hand. No discussion."

As if that night couldn't get any stranger, Holmes actually came over and leaned against the bench I was lying on. I considered making a comment on his outburst, but decided against it. I made myself comfortable on the bench and went back to staring at the ceiling. Yes, I think it was stone. Holmes sat on the bench and I moved my feet to accommodate. We sat there for a long time, him and I.

After an hour or so (or three, I lost track of time), I said, "Do you think I could stick a knife on my wrist? Like the story of that pirate?"

"Are you referring to Captain Hook?" There was no trace of any anger left his voice, just light amusement. "I suppose. What would that make you, then? Captain Knife?"

"Why Captain? I'll be known throughout the world as John the Knife, God-slayer."

"Rache and his knife, the God-slayer." Even through the darkness, I could see his smile. "The worst villains the world has ever known.

"The very worst," I agreed, and we shared a smile.


End file.
